


laundry day

by Byzantines



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: (not explicit but it's about... laundry... you know), Dead Parents, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Period blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-12
Updated: 2020-07-12
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:14:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25212250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Byzantines/pseuds/Byzantines
Summary: It's the day after the Urn of Sacred Ashes and Alistair decides to make Cousland feel better by doing some of her chores.inspired by a reddit r/relationships post about a very pure boyfriend who hand washes his girlfriend's underwear.
Relationships: Alistair/Female Cousland (Dragon Age), Alistair/Female Warden (Dragon Age)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 33





	laundry day

He had tried not to wake her.

Her cheek was resting on their worn furs, wet. Her hair mussed. She had been tossing and turning all night and had accidentally hit him in the middle of sleep during more than one occasion, but he had elected not to say anything. 

The day before was a slog, the weather terrible (thick flurries of snow blurred his vision during most of the trip, which didn’t help them from literally stumbling into furious cultists), the dragon big (the less said about the dragon the better), and the trials mind-numbingly crushing and draining all at once. 

_ You know that I am gone, and all your prayers and wishes will not bring me back. _

A handful of times, next to the fire, when all of their companions except the dog had gone to sleep, she told him of her family. (Before he gave her the rose, they sat together, their knees grazing against each other; imperceptibly. After the rose they would lay down on the earth next to each other, face-to-face, tracing each other’s features with calloused and bruised fingers). She spun stories of grumpy old nursemaids who rocked her to sleep at night, an annoying brother who pinned her to an oak tree with his arrow, a little boy with a wooden sword, her parents dancing to the minuet, in front of her, and hundreds of guests, her cheeks burning--

Of what she  _ didn’t  _ tell him, he worked out for himself. Despite his odd bursts of behaviour suggesting otherwise, Alistair wasn’t stupid. And from the moment he met her and drank her in, he endeavoured to find out more about her. Coaxing Duncan. Asking leading questions. The Warden - no,  _ Elissa,  _ that was her name  _ before _ \- had always dodged interrogation like he deflected deeper questions with his shield. He had briefly smiled at that, how utterly similar they were, in certain ways. He had found it easy and comforting to open up to her after the events of Ostagar, when he would wake up breathless and sweaty, with images of Duncan and Cailan broken and bloody seared into his imagination (and the Archdemon, screaming, always screaming). He would stumble to the campfire, and Elissa would be there too, with hollowed eyes and a weak, faltering smile. 

She had never fully elaborated on the intricate details of how a Teyrn’s daughter came to be a Grey Warden. He had figured it was well,  _ bad.  _ Alistair had filled the gaps, gradually, after his coaxing, gentle questions would be deflected with a kiss or a yawn. He knew that Loghain had neutralised any potential foes. He just, well, he just didn’t realise the full extent of the horror. Of her horror. Until the Temple. 

It was an understatement to say that they had been thoroughly spooked by the temple; even Morrigan had her usual acerbic glibness when speaking to the spirit, but had all but stumbled into a claw trap after the fact, eyes glassy. It was an observation Alistair didn’t point out at the time because he’s not  _ that  _ much of an arse, but he neatly filed it away for later, specifically for when Morrigan was spoiling for a fight again- but now was not the time. 

The spirit had told him everything he didn’t know already about himself: that he was unwanted, that he failed his brother (after he had railed at his half-brother for excluding him from the battle, for unknown and presumably unfair reasons, after he had realised that his Cailan had most likely sent him to the tower to  _ save his life _ ) that he failed Duncan, and the rest of the order, and in his quest to completely separate himself from his heritage, his family, and his face (that looked exactly like his dead brother, who lay crumpled in the battlefield) he had shirked his responsibility and pushed it onto who had literally just joined and had witnessed her entire family being _ murdered--- _

But it wasn’t about him, Alistair. It was about Elissa, and how from the moment he had met her she had swallowed her pain like a sharp sword and had thrown herself into the thick of it; the joining, the blight, the politics, to him. He watched her completely crumble in front of the spectre of Teyrn Cousland, her Warden mask slipping completely, falling to the floor and smashing into tiny shards of her composure. In that moment Alistair saw in a complete picture what she left behind to join him and Duncan in the war: a dead family. One that she was dragged from. He often didn’t find himself thinking badly of Duncan’s choices (if he could bring himself to think of him, that is) but dragging a shell shocked daughter away from her doomed and dying parents wasn’t particularly the most empathetic of moves. But it prevented her from dying, even if her entire being was being shattered on the cracked stone of the Temple floor.

Alistair dragged himself out of his reverie.  _ Enough thinking about death.  _ Elissa was still sleeping. It was way past their usual stirring time but he couldn’t bring himself to wake her, and had shushed their companions every time they had raised their voices near his and Elissa’s shared tent. She needed the break, by continually shouldering the burden of the Blight and their ragtag party she had neglected her own grief and had driven herself to exhaustion. Silently, he gathered up their leathers, linens, and smallclothes and left the tent, conscious not to disturb her finally even and deep breaths. 

Alistair pads past the campfire, where Zevran is stirring porridge (“Fereldans do not know how to season. It is a travesty!” he said the first time he pried the wooden spoon from a flapping Wynne’s hands), to the stream some one hundred-odd steps away, laundry in hand. The stream is fresh and burbling, and Maker, absent of any blood, was becoming harder and harder to avoid as they progressed further into Blight infested lands on their way to Denerim. He gets out his hard soap (lavender; a gift from Leliana on his name day) and proceeds to scrub at their bloodied and dirtied and clothes with earnest. 

A twig snaps behind his hunched back. Alistair whirls around, suddenly self-conscious, but it is only Zevran, bowls in hand. 

“You look-” Zevran sits down on the hard rock beside him, “like an Antivan washer-woman. Porridge?”. 

Alistair shakes his head. “No, I’m trying to get the blood out”. Elissa’s breast band hangs limp in his hands. 

Zevran clucks. “Well, you should at least eat first, my little templar. She’s not going to thank you if you barely even try because your stomach is rumbling”.

He dips his hand into the water and flings water at the Antivan’s face. “This little templar,” he laughs, “knows how to wash bloody linens!”.

“I shall take my leave, and my porridge with me then”, Zevran smirks, and amiably strolls back to the campfire where he gives an eager looking Leliana a presumably second helping.

Alistair rolls his eyes and keeps on scrubbing, doing his best to ignore the twin distractions that were Oghren and Sten lumbering into the stream, arguing, and the fact that Morrigan was there also, hovering.

At one point Alistair pushes his hair back (much too long, but Elissa likes it this way and he can’t bear to cut it if so) and rolls up his undershirt sleeves, grunting. Maker, there really was  _ a lot  _ of blood, what did she do yesterday? Let the dragon gouge out her sides?

“Zevran was right. You  _ do _ look like an Antivan washer-woman” said a cool voice behind him. Morrigan, fresh-faced and without any hint of her glassy look from the day before, had sidled up behind him, peering over his shoulder.

“And how would  _ you  _ know what an Antivan washer-woman looks like? You’ve been wallowing in a swamp with just Chasind and wolves for company, for the past twenty years, witch”.

Unlike when they first met, there isn’t any acid to his remark. Despite being annoying and barbed, Morrigan just liked someone to spar with. They would never admit it to each other, but there was a certain aspect of fun in sparring with each other every day. Alistair had considerably softened (although would never admit it) towards the wilds daughter after realising how damn close she and Elissa were. He was briefly jealous but realised it was beneath the both of them whenever Elissa’s face lit up whenever Morrigan had sauntered over, an ancient tomb in hand, ready to regale her with whatever piece of Arcane lore she had found. She loved Elissa just as he did, even though she had never said the words. Once the knowledge was like sharp glass between them, with her longing for her affection but never acting on it, and with him striving towards it like a plant seeks the sun. Now, however, it is a comfortable bond, their only bond, and he knows that she looks out for Elissa’s welfare just as he does, even if the warden in question would baulk at the fact.

“You know, you’re doing it all wrong.”

“Doing what wrong?”

“Well, you’ve got some smallclothes here. And that blood isn’t the same as being-stabbed-horrendously blood. You need to treat it differently” Morrigan tuts, and gently takes the crimson linens from his hand. Alistair doesn’t object.

“Hold on,” she says, and meanders to the camp and back to him, linens in one hand and a jar of salt in the other. 

Alistair narrows his eyes, thoroughly confused.

“What’s the salt for?”

“Despite becoming a  _ man  _ in many ways these past months, Alistair, you still do not know everything pertaining to a woman,” the witch says, stone-faced. She was trying not to laugh, and he knew it.

“Don’t laugh at me!”

“I’m not. I’m just helping you do something nice for our poor sweet Cousland, who is blissfully unaware the havoc you are causing to her underwear. Let me show you”.

Morrigan’s pale hands demonstrate how to get rid of bloodied stains; first by covering the linens in salt and then by soaking and scrubbing it in the water. Alistair is, surprisingly, enraptured, he loves domestic secrets and the Templars had never shown him how to do  _ that. _

After the stains are lifted, he stares at the miraculously clean linens, now a yellowed-off white instead of stained rust. 

“Well.. you learn something new every day. I… thank you, Morrigan. I guess the Chantry wasn’t completely thorough in my domestic training”.

Morrigan scoffs, but the sound isn’t harsh.

“I think after the past few days we’ve had, at least someone deserves some clean linens,” Morrigan says, bumping to Alistair’s shoulder slightly - a sign of their continued truce. A few seconds later she stands up and away from the rock he’s sitting on and starts to walk away.

“I’ll let you finish your chores before Miss Cousland wakes up,” she waves, already halfway back to camp.

Alistair can’t find it within himself, this time, to rebuke with a witty remark, and instead just calls a hasty “Thank you!” to the witch’s retreating back.

_____________

Elissa cannot remember how much she’s slept except that she was out  _ for a while _ and everything hurts all over, including her face, which is puffed up from hours of silent crying in Alistair’s prone arms.

Clambering out her tent, she realises most of the party are off doing their business- hunting, mending, and in Oghren’s case “polishing the steel” which Elissa swore was a euphemism when he first mentioned it but in actual fact the reality of it was Oghren sitting on a tree stump, polishing everyone’s weapons to a high shine. 

Alistair was not immediately visible to her, but Elissa soon noticed his broad, bronzed back over by the stream. Ignoring Oghren’s clear attempts to wave her over to admire the weaponry, she slowly sidled over to her fellow warden.

Despite how damnably awful she was feeling, the sight of Alistair was an immediate balm to her. Last night she had cried all night and he was a calming presence, smoothing her sweat-damp hair and rubbing her back in slow, circular motions. Even when they had first met when she had turned up at Ostagar bedraggled and mourning, he had managed to make her smile for the first time since  _ the before _ by simply being himself. 

He had made her smiles many times since then, including now, seeing him bent forward, scrubbing at what seems to be small clothes. His back was to her, and he had not noticed Elissa’s presence.

“What are you doing?”

Alistair starts, surprised, and promptly drops the soap and smallclothes in the stream with the soap making a loud  _ plop  _ sound.

“Shit- no, Maker, you scared me!” he laughs as whirls around and realises who was behind him.

Elissa’s eyes narrow in mock annoyance. “Are you washing my  _ underwear _ ?”.

She knows exactly where to pin him, and is amused when a berry-bright blush begins to creep its way from the tips of his ears to his cheeks.

“Well, I- you were sleeping, and you didn’t sleep much last night, and Morrigan helped…” he trails off and sees she isn’t annoyed and is in fact, smirking, her eyes bright with amusement.

A large splash of water is promptly shoved her way. “Oh, enjoy teasing do you? After I’ve worked my fingers to the bone getting those stains out?” Alistair pouts in an exaggerated sulk. “I’m wounded”. 

Elissa throws her head back and laughs- it’s a brief laugh, but it’s the first time she has done so in quite a few days, and well, she is feeling better already. She plops herself down next to him on the hard rock, and cups his face.

“No! I’m… thankful. This is sweet. You’re sweet. You didn’t have to do my chores…” She bit her lip. “I never did learn how to do my own washing. Leliana has been helping me since Lothering. We normally do it together. Sorry. That sounds so ridiculous. A girl my big age who can’t do her own chores, and here you are doing them for me.”

She’s rubbing her thumb over his cheek now and Alistair has forgotten entirely about the soap and the smallclothes currently floating away from them, down the stream. Distracted, again.

He covers her hand with his large and calloused one.

“Well, we all have our faults. Except for me, because I’m perfect, and that’s why you keep me around. Don’t worry, I won’t tell the Archdemon Warden Cousland doesn’t know how to wash her bits.” He wiggles his eyebrows, but still presses his hand over hers.

Elissa shifts uncomfortably on the rock, and looks down briefly. He was sometimes altogether too hard to bear, even when he was being silly on purpose. It was like looking into the sun, if the sun was a boy her own age with bronzed skin and amber eyes, and freckles she liked to count at night when he was sleeping. Her chest felt full, too full, but she managed to drag her eyes back up to his.

“Maybe it’ll scare him off- just throw one of my old dirty knickers in his face and what do you know, boom, Blight over” she replies, wiggling her eyebrows in return.

“Maybe. And then when the Blight is over, maybe we can properly teach you how to wash your linens.” Alistair gently removes her hand from his cheek and leans over to kiss her briefly on the mouth. This time it’s her turn to blush- but her attention is swiftly taken away from lips drawing near hers again by her underwear bobbing up and down in the water.

“You won’t be my teacher then. Look- my underwear is escaping!.”

“Shit-” Alistair practically flings himself from the rock and blunders up the stream. A minute later he’s back, soaking underwear in hand. She can’t stop the laughter from bubbling over and throws her head back in a guffaw. It’s bright and loud, and even dripping in too cold stream water Alistair can’t help but smile at her good mood. He didn’t think she would have one for a while.

“What’s so funny? You wound me, my lady. You repay a selfless heroic deed with laughter?”

“I wasn’t laughing at you!” she pauses to take a breath and wipes her eyes. “I was laughing at the situation, and what my parents would say if they saw this.”

He stills, still clutching the underwear in one hand, not trusting himself to speak yet. The hurt is still raw, even more so after last night. But she’s still laughing and he takes a deep breath.

“And… what would they say?”. Alistair is back on the rock now, and his wringing out the smallclothes.

Elissa purses her lips together briefly in a bid to stop herself from laughing before continuing. She doesn’t know why it’s so amusing, but it is.

“I think they would be entertained by me being looked after by such a shy, retiring almost-Templar, and the fact that someone likes me enough to wash my clothes. Even when they’re dirty and stinking and bloodied. I don’t think they ever thought to see me do… domestic things like this. I might as well have grown two heads if they were with us know, having this conversation.”

Alistair squints at both her eyes and slowly takes her face in her hands. Her face is small compared to his, and dainty. He wonders how many people would have held her face like this, in this exact way, but brushes the thought from his mind. He was the one doing it now, and the only one who  _ would _ be doing this for as long as they lived, he thought.

“I’m looking very hard, and I hate to break it to you, but you don’t have two heads. I’ll have to check to make sure”. He plants a kiss first on her left cheek, then her right, then her lips. “No. Definitely just the one head”.

Elissa’s eyes shine brightly and she leans herself into his hands, just a little bit. 

“What a shame.”

“What a shame indeed. It would be  _ wonderful _ if there were two of you- but I don’t think I’d ever know silence again.”

“Shut up!”

Alistair chuckles softly, still cradling her face gently. He’s forgotten about the underwear and the rest of the linens completely now, and they hand limply next to them on the rock, dripping. 

“I jest,” he says. “But I don’t think they’d laugh at you. Well maybe a little bit, considering I’m doing your washing for you because I haven’t had the heart to tell you before now that Leliana thinks you’re appalling at it. I think they’d be proud of you though. You were very brave yesterday. I couldn’t have done that”. 

Her eyes widen a little bit. “Proud?”.

“Yeah. And not just because of being a Grey-Warden and all that, but because you simply try your best every day. I’ve seen you do it. You’ve learnt how to cook and forage and you’ve even started meditating with me- it’s all come out of something so awful, but when I look at you, aside from thinking you’re amazing and terrifying, I also see someone who is a lot better at being a functioning adult person than I am at times. Despite everything.”

“Is my cooking good then?”, Elissa replies. Their noses are almost touching.

“Oh, Maker, no. It’s awful. Worse than at the monastery. But we can’t be good at everything!”

They both laugh, then, shoulders heaving, faces pressed together. It’s been six months since Elissa arrived at Ostagar, and she has laughed roughly one thousand times since then, after thinking she never would again.

_ No more must you grieve, my girl. Take the pain and the guilt, acknowledge it, and let go. It is time. _


End file.
